This Is Not A Dream AKA Wedding Night
by dederants
Summary: Your wedding night with Tom Hiddleston. Or is it?
1. Chapter 1

The two of you are dancing in the middle of the bedroom, hips swaying from side to side. You're both wrapped in each other's arms; Tom whispers tender, sweet nothings in your ear, possibly bits of Shakespeare. You're both naked, but have been dancing for what seems like hours, and either of you have yet to move further intimately...

Your hands, flat against his torso, slowly crawl from the small of his back to his shoulder blades, his hands make a reverse trip down your torso. The feeling send shivers up your spines, he kisses your right temple. You never imagined you'd be doing this on your wedding night, let alone be lucky enough to marry THE Tom Hiddleston, but you were that lucky girl, and this night is exceeding your expectations.

Your lips pucker and peck gently at the skin on his right shoulder, and his land on your neck. It arouses you, and you want to wrap your legs around him. You play cool, however, aware that will come soon enough.

His hum is low in register, but you feel it in your bones, vibrant in your veins. He smells beautiful, a fresh-out-of-the-bath scent, but so do you, thanks to the one you both came out of moments before. You were nervous, but you got a glimpse of what he looked like underneath those jeans, t-shirts, leather jacket, fine-tailored suits. You finally got that glimpse other would fight to the death to see, and he finally sees you, at you most vulnerable.

His left hand finds its way to the nape of your neck, the index finger making slow, gentle circles. It tickles slightly, but arouses you more, heightens your senses. In response, your left hand makes its way down to his right buttcheek, squeezing ever so gently. You hear him chuckle, and your smile is wide and loud.

Tom's right hand travels to your left breast, cupping it, a thumb caressing the nipple. You sigh, breathing against his warm shoulder skin. He leaves a trail of kisses from your earlobe, along your jawline, up your cheek, across your cheekbones. Your head tilts back in the process, and you open your eyes, meeting his giant blues. He could get anything he wanted out of you with just one look, and as you begin to list all of those things in your head, his lips slowly make their way to yours, and you sink deeper into the embrace. Your mouths open simultaneously, as if telepathic, your wet tongues wrestle slightly. You want more of him, he craves you, his arms' embrace tightens around you, and your arms wrap around his neck, keeping him close. You right leg wraps around his waist, pulling him and his erection closer. Your arousals touch, making you hotter and wanting. Then everything fades into darkness...

You wake up in a cold sweat. Light beams in through your window, sunlight beaming down on you. _Damn_, you think to yourself. _Another dream..._

You shift your body to get more comfortable in your bed; it's routine for you to stay in bed for at least fifteen minutes before getting up to do anything. You're thinking of what to eat for breakfast when you feel a hand on your hip, sliding down and over your stomach, pulling you closer to its source. You turn over to find Tom sleeping soundly, and you slide closer to him, fitting your body with his, two pieces of a puzzle fitting together. In your mind, you wonder to yourself how long this will last before you have to wake up again, wake up in an empty bed.

You pinch yourself, and you feel the pain. And you realize...

_I'm not dreaming._

Pulling your pillow closer, the platinum wedding band reveals itself on the ring-finger. _This is not a dream..._


	2. Chapter 2

You're in the kitchen, gathering ingredients to make breakfast.

Pancake mix, eggs, bacon, sausages, fruit are on the menu. Dressed in a hoodie and shorts, you measure the pancake mix in a measuring cup. Adding water, you stir the contents into a batter, when the memory of your wedding night comes back to you.

You and Tom lie on the bed, wrapped in sheets, with the exception of your torsos, and each other. You've already achieved orgasm, but Tom is still inside you, filling you with each thrust. You're spent and yet... yet you cannot get enough of Tom. You nibble at his ear; run your fingers through his hair, tugging it ever so slightly; plant kisses on his collarbone. His light kisses are embedded in your neck as he continues to thrust into you slowly, and you bite your bottom lip.

You find yourself back in the kitchen, slowly stirring air while biting that lip. You release it and get back to stirring batter. The non-stick pan is lightly greased with butter, and once you've stirred the lumps out of the mix, sliced strawberries are mixed in, and the combination is poured into the hot pan.

Each pancake is small enough to fit your palm, and a little over a centimeter thick. The aroma of the strawberries makes your mouth water, taking you back...

Tom is still thrusting, but close to completion. Your hands travel all over his torso; up his back, caressing the nape of his neck, resting on his beautifully sculpted face. You look into those giant blue eyes, eyes full of lust and deep love.

"I love you," he whispers.

"I love you, too," you whimper, your arousal coming around once more. Your lips reach his, and as he comes, his mouth is in line with yours. He stills, and you feel him pulsing inside you, releasing his seed.

You inhale his breaths, and your left hand automatically reaches up and touches his cheek. Your thumb traces his cheekbone, his jawline, his lips; resting on his elbows, his right hand does the same.

"Love?" he says from behind you, snapping you out of fantasy. "What's all this?"

You answer with, "Making breakfast," the corner of your mouth curling into a grin.

"Oh, that's lovely," Tom replies, his wide smile lighting up his face as always. "Need any help?"

"I've got it covered."

"Wonderful. Well, I'll set the table." Tom bounces over to the cupboards, opening them and pulling out plates, glasses, mugs for tea and/or coffee, and setting up the table. He brought over plates for the bacon, sausages and pancakes, as well as filled two glass cups with orange juice.

You can't help but smile at the effort Tom puts into setting the table, but you feel something is a bit... odd. Something off about this particular day, and you cannot put your finger on it. You decide it's probably just your nerves after experiencing that memory, and you compartmentalize it, sliding the crispy bacon and sausages onto a plate.

The spread is modest, fitting for a loving, married couple. The food is delicious, but you're already full from watching Tom eat healthily. He takes time to taste each bite, audibly complimenting your cooking with moans. Your brain then goes back to the memory...

The memory of him inside you, moaning with each thrust. Every moan slight and gentle. You remember every kiss before and since then: the peck on the lips before he leaves the house, kissing every square inch of your jawline, the prolonged plant on the forehead.

_He's filled with so much love, and I'm one of the lucky people he gives that love to._

Breakfast is finished, and you talk about plans for the day. Tom offers to clean up, and before you can protest, he's up and grabbing empty plates from the table as well as the pans and measuring cup, dumping them in the sink. He turns to you, standing in front of the sink.

"Go back to bed, get some rest. You've worked hard enough, making this delicious breakfast." That smile...

"Tom, you're a busy man with things to do today. I can take care of-"

Tom walks up to you and silences you with a kiss, a long, passionate kiss. His hands take hold of your face as he finally pulls away. You look at him, nod, and take one of his hands, kissing it gently on the palm. You the let go and walk out of the kitchen, licking your lips and tasting strawberries...

Once you've gone, he gets to work. Before going back to the bedroom, you peek back into the kitchen to watch Tom work. You can't help but smile as you watch, the sun shining in through the window, illuminating his face.

In a moment, the smile slides off of your face, turning into a slight frown. You notice, in the reflection of the window's glass, Tom's face looking morose, and your heart breaks. He looks out the window, searching, possibly for an answer to a question he was asking himself. As much as you want to go over and comfort him, you feel it best to give him his privacy, and slowly walk back to the bedroom.

Sitting on the bed, the picture of Tom being sad doesn't leave your head. You have so many questions of why that expression was ever on his face to begin with. _He's usually such a happy person; he was glowing during breakfast. What could be wrong? I wonder if he'll talk to me about it..._

Lying down and pulling the covers over you, you wonder and worry about what could be wrong, what could possibly be done to make Tom feel better.

Suddenly, you hear him making his way to the bedroom. You pretend you're asleep, but you don't feel him sitting on the bed and getting under the covers. Instead, you hear him opening the closet, grabbing a few items, and going into the bathroom, starting up the shower.

He hasn't said anything, but within minutes you dose off, worn down by cooking breakfast and your thoughts, certain he'll talk about it once he gets back.

_No worries_, you think to yourself. _It'll all be fine, I'm sure..._


	3. Chapter 3

I woke up to repetitious tapping against the window. It rained heavily, the wind gusted the drops against the glass. My eyes were still adjusting, and I reached behind me to feel on Tom's side of the bed. It was empty, cool to the touch. _He hasn't gotten back yet_, I thought to myself.

A nagging feeling pulled me up to sitting position on my side. The feeling sat at the pit of my stomach, leaving me unsettled. I was reluctant to leave my own warmth, but in the battle between what I wanted and my instinct, the latter won.

I got up and walked out into the corridor of the flat. That rain poured down, audible though the roof and ceiling.

Then the doorbell rang.

_That couldn't be Tom,_ I thought. _He has a key_...

Instinct did cartwheels in my stomach, making me nauseous. I walked towards the door. _Might as well answer that_...

"Who is it?" I shouted. No one answered. Maybe one of the elderly neighbors down the hall needing help. He was hard of hearing.

Open the door, instinct said to me, having spread to my brain.

I opened the door, and Tom stood in front of it, soaked from head to toe. I grabbed his arm and pulled him into the flat, closing and locking the door behind him. He had no coat on, and was shivering.

"Where have you been?" I asked with genuine concern. He didn't answer. He just... stared at the floor, avoiding my eyes entirely as if he'd done something wrong.

My hands cradled his chilly face, pulling his head up and his eyes finally met mine. "It's okay, love," I assured him. "I'm not angry. Concerned, but definitely not angry."

His eyes were huge, round, and sad. He seemed to be apologizing for something, without saying anything. He may not have known what to say. But within moments, he went from sad, apologetic puppy eyes to taking my face in his hands, kissing me passionately.

Hands traveled one another's bodies, removing and leaving a trail of clothes between the front door and the entrance of the bedroom. Even naked, Tom's skin and hair were wet. He was still cool to the touch and shivering, yet didn't stop him from pecking kisses on my neck, trailing across my jawline to my cheek, and ending with his lips on mine again.

You look devilishly handsome in that suit, I thought to myself, staring at him lying in a casket. He looked peaceful, as if in a deep sleep, seemingly still breathing. He was in one of his fitted navy blue suits, lifeless and pale.

I was in the funeral parlor early, checking in on the arrangements. It'll be more difficult to see the in-laws, especially his mother, but they're still my family, even in Tom's death.

He died during coitus: I was on top of him, riding him while he was inside of me. He stilled, and I assumed he'd climaxed. He had so much passion in his eyes, and in an instant, it vanished. He stared straight ahead at the ceiling, the ecstasy and life leaving his eyes.

By the time the ambulance arrived, there was nothing to be done; he was too far gone. The coroner discovered Tom's heart exploded as a result of a heart attack. It wasn't sex that killed him. It was heart disease.

Tom found out the morning he'd left the flat after breakfast, his face ashen and uncertain. His doctor explained to me the multitude of tests he'd given Tom after noticing an irregularity during a physical, and upon finding the cause, instructed Tom to inform his immediate family and spouse. Surgery was an option, but a high-risk one.

"It's not your fault," she stated as I got up to leave. "There was nothing you could do. You didn't know."

"I know," I replied, "and I don't blame him or anyone. I just miss him."

I sat on the bench outside of the wedding reception, staring ahead at the sunset. I felt someone sit down next to me and onto part of the skirt of my gown. I didn't see it, but it felt the expression on Tom's face was either of puzzlement or concern.

"Is everything alright?" He asked, almost in a whisper.

"Oh, everything's fine," I replied, still staring at the setting sun on the horizon. I then turned my attention away to look at Tom. "Today was beautiful."

"Was?!" he questioned, surprised. "It still is!" He smiled with his mouth and eyes, and my heart melted.

It was such a beautiful day, and we had those we loved dearly there to share such a beautiful day with. The exchange of vows was personal and intimate and tearful - Tom cried as I walked down the aisle, on his father's arm. The food at the reception was delicious and everyone danced happily, tipsy with joy. Tom and I were already drunk on love for one another...

On that bench, he whispered into my ear something I shall never repeat. The day I saw him lying in that casket, I slipped a small piece of paper into his right jacket sleeve. Its contents are that of what he whispered in my ear, with a slight addition. I don't want him to forget it.

I haven't forgotten. I never will.


End file.
